


Death Seems To Him A Mere Play

by LightningStarborne, yourlocalbirb



Series: The Last of the Nine [1]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, BAMF Ioreth, BAMF!Dirhael, Black Gate, Body Paint, Branding, Children, Cirith Ungol, Corruption, Culture Shock, F/M, Feanor the Fire Drake, Fluff, GFY, Kinda, Magic, Misunderstandings, Mordor, Nazgûl | Ringwraiths, Orcs, Orcs are people too!!, Orphanage, Orphans, Redemption, Selectively Mute Talion, Walking, War Paint, Worldbuilding, and definitely BAMF Talion, but not really?, its the blue hand, just sad, my garbage dialogue, not embarrassing though, the major character death is talion, they paint it on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 11:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningStarborne/pseuds/LightningStarborne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalbirb/pseuds/yourlocalbirb
Summary: Do not stand at my grave and weep;I am not there. I do not sleep.I am a thousand winds that blow.I am the diamond glints on snow.I am the sunlight on ripened grain.I am the gentle autumn rain.When you awake in the morning's hush.I am the swift uplifting rushOf quiet birds in circled flight.I am the soft stars that shine at night.Do not stand at my grave and cry;I am not there. I did not die.~Mary Elizabeth Frye, Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep, 1932Dirhael and Ioreth survive the massacre at Black Gate and live through the end of the war to travel to Mordor with Aragorn to investigate a man known only as "The Lord of Mordor."





	Death Seems To Him A Mere Play

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS, I AM STILL ALIVE.
> 
> So this particular AU belongs to yourlocalbirb, and if you follow her on tumblr (your-local-birb) you may have seen this before. If you wanna see more of her outlines for it you can search "The Last of the Nine" on her blog. You should also check out the rest of her AUs, which are all AMAZING. 
> 
> If you are here to pester me about the garbage fire that The Grace of Madness became, be aware that I know it became garbage, and will eventually rewrite it. I do not currently have the inspiration or motive to do so. On Fallaces Sunt Rerum Species, know that I write that when I want, and more may be coming eventually. Not today.
> 
> Things that are currently in work for me, if you're curious:
> 
> Two Assassin's Creed fics
> 
> More of this AU
> 
> Potentially another of yourlocalbirb's AUs, if she's cool with it
> 
> Otherwise, everything is permanently on hiatus. I cannot guarentee that any of what I have mentioned will come out any time soon, anyway. Particularly the AC ones, as those plan to be longer than anything I've written before, so I want to get quite a bit written before I post.
> 
> Enjoy the fic!
> 
> (Songs listened to while writing this:
> 
> Gone Away by Five Finger Death Punch
> 
> I'll Follow You by Shinedown
> 
> I Gave You All by Mumford and Sons
> 
> iRobot by Jon Bellion
> 
> Experience by Ludovico Einaudi
> 
> 45 by Shinedown
> 
> First Burn by Lin Manuel Miranda)
> 
> Title from:
> 
> The difference between a great soul and an ordinary man is this: the latter weeps while leaving this body, whereas the former laughs. Death seems to him a mere play. ~Sarada Devi

Sometimes, very rarely, people managed to escape Mordor. These people were generally broken, wary, nearly feral. They had nothing to live for, and for over two thousand years these people were often found dead mere weeks after escaping their hell. They had managed to survive and escape, but when they reached the end of the line, they lacked the motivation to continue living.

 

They told the people of Gondor of the hell that they had endured in Mordor, of the struggle that it was to survive, and then they died.

 

Until…

 

A few years after the fall of Minas Ithil and the rise of Minas Morgul, more refugees than ever before flooded in from Mordor. The people of Gondor were surprised at this sudden influx, but welcomed them with open, yet cautious, arms. The people were still skittish and nearly feral, but they were together and, as a result, far happier than any others before them.

 

Many of the people of Gondor questioned how this came to be. The Darkness still held Mordor within its grasp and showed no signs of letting go. When asked, the refugees would always fall silent.

 

“The Gravewalker,” was only ever whispered between them, the word reverent and quiet. Over time, this very same word was accompanied with title  _ The Lord of Minas Morgul. _

 

These titles were whispered to the small children of refugees who owed their life to a man many had only heard of.

 

_ The Gravewalker saved me. I would not be here to save you if he had not. _

 

_ What’s he like? _

 

_ He- _

 

_ He’s- _

 

_ … _

 

_ He’s sad. _

 

The children were told to never speak of him, to never reveal his presence in Mordor to anyone, lest they believed him to be as evil as many first saw him to be. Every person who fled Mordor had heard of the Gravewalker, the Lord of Minas Morgul, the New Nazgul. 

 

The man who had given them the chance to flee the hell that was Mordor.

 

The people of Gondor relaxed after a while, the refugees still flooded in, and life went on. The odd beginnings of the refugees was forgotten and the whispers of  _ Gravewalker _ were dismissed as nothing but legend to all who had never been to Mordor.

 

~

 

As a Ranger, Dirhael often found himself among the refugees that came in from Mordor, helping heal and protect them. The older Rangers told him that it was a miracle that there were so many here, instead of still trapped in Mordor, but Dirhael had never had the chance to see otherwise. 

 

There was only one issue that Dirhael had with the refugees.

 

_ He looks like  _ him _ , does he not? _

 

_ Shush, he might be able to hear us! _

 

_ Who, the Ranger or the Gravewalker? _

 

_ Both! _

 

Dirhael did not know who this “Gravewalker” was, but he knew that he looked a lot like Dirhael and that the name was spoken of with reverence and only when they thought that none of the Rangers were paying the refugees any attention. Dirhael often wondered if the Gravewalker was a false god, created by the refugees in place of the absent Valar.

 

“You spend a lot of time among the refugees from Mordor, Dirhael,” Faramir commented to him at dinner, and Dirhael shrugged.

 

“They need help just as much as any other refugees,” Dirhael said, taking a seat next to Faramir. “If not more. Some people would refuse them help just because they come from Mordor, so I must make up for those people where I can.”

 

“You are a good man,” Faramir said.  “It does you and your family credit.”

 

He did not respond to that. People did not understand that Dirhael did not want recognition, he did not want power. If he could give up all the recognition and all the power he had somehow accumulated over the years in exchange for his father before him, happy and healthy, then he would. In a heartbeat. ‘Doing his family credit’ be damned.

 

“You are very morose today,” Faramir’s voice pulled Dirhael out of his thoughts. “Is there any particular reason why?”

 

Dirhael sighed, looking away from Faramir’s concerned face and over the heads of the other men eating dinner. “I’m fine,” he said eventually. “It’s just that…”

 

“What?” Faramir was very soothing. “I can’t help you if I don’t know why you hurt.”

 

“You can’t help this hurt heal,” Dirhael said, though he was grateful. “Time has healed what it can, and it will heal no more.”

 

“Ah,” Faramir said. His voice was very gentle as he continued. “The anniversary of a loved one’s death. I will pry no further.”

 

“You are fine,” Dirhael told him. “I don’t mind you asking and you only mean to help.” He took a deep breath, and let it out. “Black Gate fell on this day, sixty years ago.”

 

“Many a person lost a friend or loved one on those walls when it fell,” Faramir nodded.

 

“I was on the wall when it fell,” Dirhael said, and Faramir stared at him. “I managed to escape with my mother and with my life, but many of the men were my friends.”

 

“Ah,” Faramir said, and it was clear that he was at a loss for words. There was nothing to be said in response to that. “I grieve with thee.”

 

“Thank you,” Dirhael said, “but that is not all. My father was the Captain of Black Gate and died alongside those there.”

 

He could see that Faramir held a similar grief in his heart, having lost many of his friends as well as his father in the siege on Minas Tirith. It was why Dirhael had told him. He did not offer empty platitudes of sympathy, but calm acceptance of their shared grief.

 

“May they find peace in the Halls of Mandos,” Faramir raised his glass in a toast, and many of the men around them noticed. “And may we see them again when we find our own way there.”

 

Dirhael raised his own glass in response, alongside the men of Gondor. The men did not know what they had been speaking of, but they all knew grief. 

 

It was this conversation that Dirhael clung to a week later when he considered strangling the Steward.

 

“I’m going to need you to repeat that,” he said.

 

“We are going to Mordor now that the shadow is passed,” Faramir began.

 

“No, no,” Dirhael waved a hand. “I understood that part. I just need you to repeat who will be a part of our company. And the part about there being rumours of a new Lord of Mordor.”

 

Faramir’s smile grew wider at Dirhael’s disbelief. “There have been rumours about a new Lord of Mordor, so several Rangers and soldiers of Gondor will be travelling through Mordor to assess the damage and the to Minas Morgul, where this Lord is said to reside, in order to potentially form a peace treaty.”

 

“Anyone who goes by ‘The Lord of Mordor’ cannot be a good thing,” Dirhael argued. “Why even bother with the peace treaty? We may be weak from the War of the Ring, but I don’t believe that we will be listened to, so it would be better to prepare as best we can.”

 

“We must try,” Faramir said. “As for our company, you did not hear wrong.”

 

“So you truly believe that I am suit for the companionship of a King?” Dirhael’s voice dripped with disbelief. “I’m not sure if you know this, Faramir, but Black Gate was where they sent the people they didn’t like. My father may have been the Captain, but that doesn’t change that I am an outcast among my own family!”

 

“I do not care about what your family thinks of you,” Faramir said. “You speak well of your mother and your father, so those are what matters. I do not care that your father was sent to Black Gate as a punishment. You are a good man, raised by someone who cared for you, which is all I need to know about him.”

 

“Then what made you decide to bring me?” Dirhael asked. “That you believe me a good man is not enough to make me fit for a King.”

 

“Yes,” Faramir said. “It is.”

 

Dirhael stared at him, disbelieving. Faramir could not possibly believe that a random Ranger who had impressed him  _ once _ during the War of the Ring was the right person to include in a diplomatic party to  _ Mordor _ . The fact that he was from Black Gate made it even worse. It was the denizens of Mordor who had slaughtered Dirhael’s friends and family, leaving him without his father. He told Faramir as much, but he just waved it off.

 

“You would get along well with the King,” Faramir said, and Dirhael’s jaw dropped. “You are a good man, and a good fighter. That is all that I needed to know when I chose you.”

 

Dirhael knew that there was no talking Faramir out of it now. “Fine,” he said. “Is there anything in particular that I should bring?”

 

“We have been encouraged to bring someone close to us with us,” Faramir said. “Granted that they will not be defenseless in a fight.”

 

“What?” Dirhael said. “Why? Who are you bringing?”

 

Faramir shrugged. “The King believes that it will humanize us to the Lord of Mordor, but is not taking the risk of them dying in the meantime. I think his wife refused to be left behind, so King Elessar decided we should all bring someone with us so she wouldn’t be stuck with a bunch of men.”

 

Dirhael dragged his hands down his face. “You’re bringing your wife, I suppose.” It was not a question.

 

“Absolutely,” Faramir said. “I was planning on inviting her anyway, but now I have the encouragement of my King.”

 

“Your wife is terrifying,” Dirhael agreed. He had met her once, when she came to spar with the men. Dirhael had watched as more than a dozen of them had tried to go easy on her and got their asses handed to them as Faramir smiled sappily on the sidelines.

 

Dirhael had not gone easy on her, and Lady Eowyn had grinned when his blade had slammed against hers. He had not won the spar, but he had not lost as easily as the men before him, so Dirhael counted it as a win.

 

“Who are you thinking of bringing?” Faramir asked.

 

“My mother,” Dirhael said without thinking, and Faramir blinked in surprise.

 

“Your…” Faramir looked very confused. “Your mother? Not that there’s anything wrong with her, I’m sure! It’s just that-”

 

“I understand,”  Dirhael said. “She’s an old woman now, so she seems like a terrible choice.” Faramir nodded and Dirhael grinned. “After what happened at Black Gate, she insisted on learning to fight. Even now, at her age, she stills insist I spar with her every week.”

 

“She sounds terrifying,” Faramir said.

 

“She is,” Dirhael agreed. “And thanks to good genes, she doesn’t look a day over fifty.”

 

“Is she of the line of Elendil?” Faramir asked.

 

“No,” Dirhael said. “Sometimes I am sure that aging tried to take a hold of her, but she glared at it and it went away.”

 

Faramir laughed, clapping a hand on Dirhael’s shoulder. “I look forward to meeting her! Any other questions?”

 

“Not at the moment,” Dirhael shook his head. “I’ll come to you later if I have any more.”

 

“Good,” Faramir said. “Now, come. I want to introduce you to the King.”

 

Dirhael paled. “What, now?”

 

“Yes, now,” Faramir said, walking towards the palace. “King Elessar asked me to present all of my choices to him before we left.”

 

“I am not dressed to meet a King!” Dirhael protested, jogging to catch up with him. “He will refuse to have me on this mission if I do not present myself well.”

 

Faramir finally stopped, turning to face Dirhael, face serious. “Dirhael, you are a Ranger,” he said. “King Elessar is a good king and an even better man.”

 

“You have told me this before,” Dirhael said. “That does not mean that he will appreciate the fact that I am dressed in my training armor and am filthy from practice.”

 

“I knew you were practicing,” Faramir said, and Dirhael sent him a wounded look. “King Elessar was a Ranger before he was a king, and he knows that it takes time and practice to keep oneself in top form. He will respect you more for the fact that you clearly know this.”

 

“Yes,” Dirhael said, “but he is still a King, and it is disrespectful to show up to a meeting with him like it was an afterthought. I am not friends with him as you are.”

 

Faramir sighed. “Dirhael, I knew you were practicing when I came to talk to you and I was planning on introducing you to King Elessar. I told him this before I came to get you, and he knows that we are not stopping for you to change.”

 

Dirhael glared at him. “You are telling me that you have been planning on putting me before the King when I am not at my best for this entire time?”

 

“Yes,” Faramir said, “because I know the King and I know that he wants to see you as you are, not how you would present yourself to a King.”

 

It made sense. It truly did. If Dirhael had time to prepare and dress then he would spent the entire time making himself into someone he was not in order to make himself fit for a King. The King, as a Ranger, would prefer to see Dirhael as himself. Respectful of his King, but just a man.

 

Dirhael knew this, but he did not like it.

 

“Fine,” he told Faramir, “but know that I protest.”

 

Faramir tilted his head in acknowledgement, then led the rest of the way to a garden outside of the King’s home. In the garden were two elves, a dwarf, and the King. One elf, presumably the  _ Queen _ , was watering a flower that looked slightly less vibrant than the rest. Dirhael would have missed the second elf, but for his singing. He was high in a tree that was swaying in time with the music. Weird.

 

Underneath that tree was a dwarf with a deep red beard. He grumbled and chewed on his pipe, occasionally raising his voice to call up to the elf in the tree. Next to the dwarf, also smoking a pipe, was King Elessar. He looked content, eyes closed, legs stretched out in front of him, and head tilted back.

 

“Aragorn,” Faramir called as they approached, and King Elessar smiled a greeting, but did not stand.

 

“Have you asked anyone about coming with us to Mordor?” the King asked.

 

“I have,” Faramir said. “I bring with me Dirhael, formerly of Black Gate, now of Minas Tirith, Ranger of the North.”

 

King Elessar opened his eyes and nodded at Dirhael, who bowed to his King. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Dirhael of Minas Tirith.”

 

“And I, you, your majesty,” Dirhael said. “Captain Faramir has told me of your plan to journey to Mordor and Minas Morgul. He believes that I would be able to help on this journey.”

 

“I trust his judgement,” King Elessar said. “I would also like for you to bring another person of your choosing. They must be able to defend themselves, but otherwise the choice is yours.”

 

“Yes, your majesty,” Dirhael said. “Captain Faramir mentioned this to me when he first told me of your plans.”

 

“Is there anyone who you would consider?” King Elessar asked.

 

“My mother,” Dirhael said, and the King blinked in surprise. “She is strong despite her age and wise because of it, and she learned how to fight after we escaped Black Gate. She has kept up with her fighting skills and would be an asset to your mission.”

 

“She sounds like a good woman,” King Elessar said. “It is clear that you love and respect her.” The King turned to the Queen. “Arwen, what are your thoughts?”

 

“He shows trust in his friends by coming here with Faramir despite not being given time to prepare,” Queen Evenstar said, moving to stand above her husband. “He respects his mother by choosing her when given a choice of who to bring and by choosing her for her wisdom and strength. He honors the dead by asking Faramir to include his affiliation with Black Gate.” Queen Evenstar looked down at the King. “I believe he would be a good choice.”

 

“Thank you, meleth nin,” King Elessar said, smiling up at her. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

 

A voice floated down from the tree to tease King Elessar. “You two are so in love that I can feel it from up here, mellon nin.”

 

“You and Gimli are not much better,” King Elessar called up and the dwarf beside him snorted. “At least we do not argue from one side of Arda to the other to show it.”

 

“Aye,” said the dwarf, “but if we stopped then you would not know it was us.”

 

“I would get more sleep,” King Elessar said. “I should thank you at least.”

 

A blonde head appeared in the tree, the elf in the tree finally coming down far enough that Dirhael could see him. He looked at King Elessar, one blonde eyebrow raised to mirror the confused glower from the dwarf.

 

“Diplomacy is easy,” King Elessar told them, “because you have given me practice in dealing with needlessly tense situations.”

 

The elf and the dwarf both rolled their eyes. The elf flipped down from the tree, his head raised in mock offense. “Come on, Gimli,” he said with a laugh in his voice. “We shall go to the other side of the gardens. There are more trees there and I can see that we are not wanted here.”

 

King Elessar looked up to the heavens, as if praying for patience, as the grumbling dwarf stomped after the elf.

 

“Will they be coming with us?” Dirhael asked bemusedly.

 

“No,” King Elessar said. “They were just stopping by for a visit before they went to Mirkwood to give the Elvenking a heart attack.”

 

Dirhael shook his head. What an odd pair. “Who else will be joining us, your majesty?”

 

“Arwen, Faramir, and Eowyn,” King Elessar said. “Otherwise I have left Faramir to choose our party. He knows the men of Gondor better than I.”

 

“Majesty?” A harried looking man scurried up to them. “You have a meeting with the treasurer in ten minutes.”

 

King Elessar sighed. “It was a pleasure speaking with you,” he said to Dirhael as he stood up. “Faramir has the rest of the information you need. We leave in one week.”

 

Dirhael bowed once more as the King, who nodded in turn before he turned and walked out of the garden, preceded by his wife and the harried man.

 

Dirhael sighed heavily, finally relaxing as the King left. He turned to glare at Faramir, who just raised an eyebrow at him.

 

How the hell was he going to explain this to his mother?

  
  


~

  
  


It turned out that Faramir hadn’t planned on choosing anyone else to join their party. It was flattering that, of all the men in Gondor, Dirhael was the only one he chose, but it was still a disturbingly small party for a king.

 

“A large party would be difficult to defend and feed,” was all Faramir said when Dirhael asked about it. He was right, but that didn’t explain why  _ Dirhael _ was chosen.

 

When Dirhael and his mother made their way to the gates where they were meeting the rest of the party, King Elessar was talking to the elf and the dwarf once more. They were packed as well and standing next to a white horse of Rohan. King Elessar embraced both of them before they mounted the horse, the dwarf before the elf in the saddle, and trotted away, towards Mirkwood.

 

“Dirhael,” Faramir greeted, and Dirhael nodded in turn.

 

“Faramir, this is my mother, Ioreth,” he introduced. “Mother, this is Captain Faramir.”

 

His mother smiled and stepped forward to shake hands with him as Faramir’s wife walked up with a chestnut horse walking behind her. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Ioreth,” Faramir said before introducing his wife. “This is my beloved, Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, the one who defeated the Witch-King of Angmar.”

 

“You defeated the Witch-King?” Mother said. “You must be a magnificent warrior.”

 

“One must be to be a Shieldmaiden of Rohan,” Eowyn said, smiling at Mother. “You must be a very strong woman to have survived Black Gate.”

 

“One must be strong to survive any part of Mordor,” Ioreth responded. 

 

“You must be Dirhael’s mother,” King Elessar said as he walked up, one hand on his horses reigns and the other holding his wife’s free hand.

 

“I am Ioreth, and you must be King Elessar and Queen Evenstar,” Mother responded without missing a beat. “It is an honor to meet you.”

 

“And you as well,” King Elessar said. “Please, call me Aragorn. There is no need for formalities as we are travelling together. Both of you.”

 

Dirhael often forgot that his mother was raised a noble. It was obvious at this moment that she was, as she interacted with their King and their Queen with a grace that Dirhael wished she had taught him. 

 

“If we are all ready, then we should be off,” Faramir said. “Dirhael, Lady Ioreth, you may use these horses.” Faramir gestured to two dark horses that were already saddled. “They are from Rohan and will be fiercely loyal to you both.”

 

Dirhael thanked him and they all mounted up and began the journey to Minas Morgul.

 

Travelling with the King - with Aragorn - was nothing like Dirhael expected it to be. He wasn’t sure what he  _ had _ thought it was going to be like, but that didn’t change the fact that Dirhael thought of Aragorn as more King and less Ranger. Aragorn, however, made it very clear that he was much more comfortable being a Ranger than he was being a King.

 

After they made camp in the evenings Aragorn and Dirhael would often go hunting for what little food could be found in Mordor. They had brought rations, but they preferred the fresh meat. 

 

The path was long and arduous, but Dirhael found himself enjoying the company around him. He loved his mother of course, who was beautiful and wise, but he also learned more of Aragorn and Arwen, and of Faramir and Eowyn.

 

Faramir often grieved for his brother, one of the Fellowship of the Ring. He often spoke with Aragorn of his brother, as Aragorn had travelled with him and witnessed his death. Boromir had apparently died protecting two other members of the Fellowship.

 

(“He was a brave man,” Faramir said. “He gave everything to Gondor, as a soldier of Gondor should.”

 

“But you still miss him,” Dirhael said. It was easy to see what he was not saying.

 

“Indeed,” Faramir replied. “He did what was right, but I would have preferred him to have done what would have brought him home.”)

 

A few weeks into the journey, Aragorn admitted to having been raised by elves.

 

(“I was raised in Rivendell, the Homely House, by Lord Elrond,” Aragorn explained. “I did not actually travel to Gondor until after Ada told me that I was heir to the throne.”

 

“It must have been strange being the only human among elves,” Dirhael said.

 

“It was very strange,” Aragorn laughed. “Ada told me that when I was little I would ask him why my ears were not like the other elves. He would tell me that it was because I was a Man, but I didn’t understand because I did not know what a Man was, only that I was one.”)

 

Arwen was the blood daughter of Lord Elrond, but had lived in Lothlorien during Aragorn’s childhood. She loved the forest of Lothlorien and said that she would miss her father when he sailed West. 

 

(“Why can you not join him?” Dirhael asked her when she mentioned her father sailing away.

“I made my choice,” Arwen told him. “That means that I cannot sail West to heal in the Undying Lands.”

 

“No offense, my lady,” Dirhael said, “but that is the dumbest thing that I have ever heard.”

 

Arwen’s laughter brightened the area around them.)

 

Eowyn, as a shieldmaiden of Rohan, fought with deadly precision. She was fierce and beautiful, but her Uncle had often kept her from battle.

 

(“Why?” Dirhael asked, though he believed he knew the answer. “You can fight and defend just as well, if not better, than many I know.”

 

“Because I am a woman,” Eowyn said. “I love and miss him, but I wish that he had allowed me into battle. Perhaps I could have stayed by his side and protected him.”

 

Dirhael knew how she felt. He had been knocked out during the Black Gate Massacre, his sword broken. His mother had found him and dragged him to safety and they had fled as soon as he had woken up. If only they had stayed, then maybe they could have saved Father.

 

Too often Dirhael could see the same thoughts reflected on his mother’s face.)

 

The journey through Mordor was mostly uneventful, but Faramir had insisted on passing through Udun before heading to Minas Morgul. He believed that it would help Dirhael grieve those that were lost, but none of them expected the graves.

 

Dirhael stared in shock at them all. “There was no one left make these,” he told his companions. “Everyone died except for Mother and I.”

 

The most disturbing part of the graves, in Dirhael’s opinion (and his mother’s if her face was to be believed), was that the largest of them were Dirhael’s and his mother’s. They both decided to ignore this particular fact in order to begin building a grave next to them. 

 

The new grave was for the only person from the Garrison who did not have one already - his father. Dirhael did not understand why someone would put the time and effort into building a graveyard with a headstone for every man in Black Gate but then fail to include their Captain, but that mistake was rectified.

 

The others were nice enough to leave them be while they wept.

 

(Several days later the only surviving Nazgul walked through the graveyard that he had created, touching a hand to every headstone and whispering the name engraved on each. No matter what Minas Tirith had said about them, these men deserved recognition. He knew that the Gondorians travelling through Mordor had stopped here, and he hoped that they had paid these men the respect that they deserved.

 

There was only one person from Black Gate who didn’t deserve a grave, and he was the one who had create these ones.

 

The Nazgul halted before one of the graves, built beside the two largest ones. This had not been here before, so he leaned forward to see who it was for. He had not forgotten anyone, had he? It would be one more sin to add to his list, if he had. 

 

_ Talion of Black Gate _

_ Captain of the Black Gate Garrison _

_ Husband of Ioreth _

_ Father of Dirhael _

 

The Nazgul stared at it, nonplussed. “What the fuck,” he whispered. Who had given him a grave? He did not deserve one, not after he let all of his men die, not after everything he had done in the past sixty years.

 

“So they  _ did _ remember me in the end,” his laughter choked off into a sob. The grave was very makeshift, a piece of wood carved with his name and titles, but it was more than he deserved. “This is a fine grave. Worthy of a better man than I.” 

 

The Nazgul moved swiftly, placing the flowers he had brought upon Ioreth and Dirhael’s graves. He laid a hand on each of the graves. “My love, my son. I  _ will _ see you again, soon.” Before he left the graveyard, he stopped in front of his grave once more.

 

“A pity it will forever remain empty,” he whispered to no one.)

 

Occasionally they would run into orc patrols, but between the six of them, they were dispatched easily. There were never more than a dozen of them, usually less. They were a few days out of Minas Morgul when they found a battlefield covered with hundreds of dead orcs. No men, no elves, just orcs.

 

They all walked through the battlefield cautiously. None of the orcs stood up, so they decided to split up. Ioreth, Arwen, and Eowyn explored one part of the battlefield while Aragorn, Faramir, and Dirhael explored the other.

 

It was uneventful, yet disgusting. It seemed as if the orcs had all turned on each other after the War of the Ring. The only interesting part was that some of the orcs were branded with a blue handprint on their face. 

 

“It reminds me of the White Hand of Sauron,” Aragorn said after they had found a dozen of these orcs, “only blue.”

 

After an hour of this exploration they found it.

 

There was a humanoid form crouched over one of the branded orcs. The armor the form was wearing had the same blue hand painted on its left shoulder. When it stood and moved on to another orc they could see the white tree of Gondor painted on the right shoulder.

 

It didn’t seem to notice them for a few minutes and Dirhael thought that it would move away from them without seeing them at all, but then it stiffened. Its head turned towards them and Dirhael could see two glowing eyes underneath its hood.

 

It looked  _ exactly _ like the monster who had killed his father and every one of his friends at Black Gate. It had killed his father and left him and his mother with no choice but to go back to a home that had rejected his father and his mother. 

 

Dirhael didn’t even notice that he had started moving towards it until Aragorn and Faramir started telling him to  _ get back here! _

 

Dirhael just turned around and hissed back at them. “ _ That thing killed my father! _ ”

 

“I have killed many young men’s fathers, boy” a voice said from behind him, and Dirhael whirled around to see the thing still staring at them, and he snarled, unsheathing his sword and stepping forward.

 

“Then I will avenge them all!” 

 

The thing merely sidestepped Dirhael’s swing, as if it were nothing. Dirhael swung again and again, but the thing dodged them all. It was fast, but Dirhael kept swinging. Finally - finally - Dirhael managed to get it to draw its sword and parry a blow.

 

“I’m going to kill you,” Dirhael told it.

 

“I am banished from death,” it replied.

 

Distantly, he heard the Faramir and Aragorn calling his name, trying to get him to stop, but he couldn’t leave this thing alive. He didn’t manage to land a single hit on the thing until it suddenly jerked to look at Aragorn.

 

_ Not my King!  _ Dirhael thought.  _ You will not harm my King! _

 

The thing was just distracted enough that he managed to slam his sword up between its ribs, and the thing snapped its head around to look at Dirhael, its hood falling off.

 

_ Father? _

 

“Dirhael?” said his father, just before he crumbled to dust around Dirhael’s sword.

 

Dirhael could only stand uncomprehendingly and stare at the ash that was left of his father as Faramir and Aragorn ran up. It couldn’t possibly be his father, he had  _ died _ sixty years ago, on Black Gate. That meant that that  _ thing _ must have used his father’s face in order to unsettle him.

 

“Dirhael?” Aragorn touches his shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”

 

“I am unharmed,” Dirhael told his King, “but that thing wore my father’s face.”

 

Aragorn and Faramir both inhaled sharply, turning to look at the dust that was swept away with the wind.

 

It couldn’t have been Father. Could it?

 

~

 

Leagues away and hours later, Talion of Black Gate, known to all but himself as The Lord of Mordor, gasped with the force of his resurrection. Then he collapsed, falling to the ground next to the Palantir.

 

_ Dear weeping gods _ , he thought, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. 

 

There was no way. Dirhael was dead, Talion had watched him die right in front of him. He had been angry and vengeful, just like Talion himself had been, and when he had first snarled out accusations of Talion murdering his father, all Talion was able to do was agree. Talion had killed many fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers, sons, and daughters. One man trying to kill him for it was hardly new and it would barely change anything. 

 

_ He would never deny his sins, those he had wronged and those he had killed deserved more than that. When Dirhael had thrown these accusations at him, Talion had hoped that the man’s father had found peace in the afterlife. _

 

But, Valar, the irony.

 

_ You did kill his father _ , a dark part of Talion snarled.  _ Talion is no more, you just wear his flesh and tell yourself that you are justified, that you are still him. _

 

Dirhael living, while a shock, was nothing compared to the shade standing behind him, shouting at him.

 

Talion covered his face, weeping. Isildur had stood behind Dirhael.  _ I sent you to find peace in death! Why have you come back? Did they not let your spirit pass through Mandos’ Halls? Is there truly nothing left for us wretched spirits after death? Is there no hope for me? _

 

Finally, Talion managed to drag himself up. He could not stand here and cry for the rest of eternity. There were things to do, and crying would not fix anything. His people - a melting pot of orcs and refugees from all over Mordor - would not lead themselves. Talion was no politician, no leader, but they all looked to him for guidance that he could barely provide.

 

He stumbled out of his tower, leaning against the wall outside to take a calming breath before he made his way through the city. Talion always found it fascinating to see how everyone mixed together. Orcs lived alongside elves who lived alongside dwarves who lived alongside humans, all led by the single surviving Nazgul.

 

The orcs turned out to be less violent than when Sauron was whispering in their ears. They were still warriors, but they had calmed into a warrior culture rather than mindless brutes. They fought and argued and defended the city. Many of them were not branded by Talion, but painted his mark on their faces and armour anyway. He was glad to have such a powerful people protecting his city.

 

The humans were refugees from all over Mordor who had initially been wary of living in Minas Morgul, until they had met Idril. She was an old woman now and many of them recognised her from when she had saved them as she travelled through Mordor. It took some time, but they finally relaxed and trusted the orcs enough to work alongside them and teach them about their own culture.

 

Elves and Dwarves were rarer than humans or orcs, as both species generally kept to themselves, but there were still some in Minas Morgul. The most prominent of each were Eltariel and Torvin, who convinced the others of Talion’s worth. It was because of them that there were any elves and dwarves in the city at all. There weren’t very many of them, but Talion was glad that they had a safe place to stay.

 

It was not often that Talion actually interacted with his people. They were all so bright and happy and safe, and Talion wasn’t. These people were finally free of the shadow, but Talion still had lines of corruption crawling away from hellish orange eyes. 

 

He wanted to keep them as safe as possible, and that meant keeping them from him.

 

Still, he needed to make sure that they were okay.

 

So here Talion was, crouched on top of a building, listening to the bustle of the city. It got more and more lively every day, and Talion loved to watch the marketplace that they had built. Torvin had his own stall, giving the people a thick soup. Torvin did this with all the meat he hunted. Many people sold food, but Torvin had arrived in the city early on, when the people were starving, and so he had gone hunting and returned with pounds of meat cooked into many large pots of soup that he gave away for free.

 

Talion was glad to have him.

 

Idril and Baranor currently stood next to Torvin in his stall, helping him hand out food. They had arrived before Torvin and had immediately started a guard that was a mix of orcs, humans, elves, and dwarves, arranging it so that everyone would be more calm around the orcs, despite suspicions and past disagreements. 

 

Torvin, Idril, and Baranor all had jobs that they had given themselves and they called themselves Talion’s council, with Torvin keeping the people fed and organizing hunting parties, Baranor being the Captain of the Guard, as Idril worked directly with the people to ensure that they were getting all they needed. In the end, while Talion was their ‘leader,’ all he really did was go around and free any remaining slaves and tell them to go to Minas Morgul if they needed a home.

 

What they didn’t understand was Eltariel’s purpose.

 

They often asked why she was there, what she was doing. Her ‘official’ job was to help Talion with freeing refugees and to organize meetings with any foreign dignitaries that may arrive, if things came to that. (It was odd, being the leader of the Free Peoples of Mordor, as some people thought that meant he was technically the leader of a country. Talion hadn’t believed Lithariel when she told him that it was true.) Eltariel’s true job, the one that they didn’t tell anyone else about, was to kill Talion.

 

She wouldn’t kill him without reason, but Talion had made her promise that if he lost himself again, she would cut the ring from his finger and let him finally be at peace. 

 

His only condition was that she actually stayed with him this time, rather than walking away to die alone. (Many of Talion’s nightmares were of dying alone - again. He had spent more than a year never being alone before he was betrayed and left to die. Being alone had hurt more than the cut on his throat or hole in his hand.)

 

Sometimes, as Talion was checking on them, the people would speak of him. He always found himself surprised at their regard for him. 

 

“Goo’ mornin,’ Torvin!” one little boy said as he was getting his afternoon soup. His cheeks were dirty and his shirt torn, but it seemed to be that which came from playing, not poverty. Talion remembered finding him in a slave pen in Nurnen, about to be thrown into the arena for the amusement of a group of mercenaries. Talion had slaughtered them all and carried the child out himself while the other slaves had followed them. “How’s Misser Talion doin’?”

 

“He’s fine,” Torvin said, serving the kid a large bowl of soup. “Busy brooding and thinkin’ himself the root of all evil.”

 

“I am  _ not _ ,” Talion grumbled and Torvin turned to raise an eyebrow up at him.

 

“Then why are you hangin’ out up there like some kind of livin’ gargoyle instead of down here, tellin’ these kids stories about all your deeds,” he rumbled.

 

Torvin was always the best at getting Talion to come down and interact with people. He knew that Talion had a soft spot for kids and used it ruthlessly, convincing Talion to come down and delight children with stories. It always worked.

 

The moment that Torvin finished speaking half a dozen more children materialized from random places to send pleading eyes up towards Talion. He sighed, giving Torvin a baleful look that was cheerfully ignored as Talion jumped down from the roof into a gaggle of cheering children.

 

About five of them immediately latched onto him, which never ceased to surprise him. It was also mildly frustrating because these touches were so  _ overwhelming _ in a way they hadn’t been before he died. He didn’t understand why it was different, but he always welcomed them despite the mild discomfort because it brought the children joy.

 

(They were so happy about it that he never told them to stop, even though he knew it would be better to keep them as far from his corruption as possible. Every time it happened, Talion told himself that this would be the last time, that he wouldn’t corrupt them any further, but every time one of them approached him or Torvin called up to him, their faces lit up with happiness and he couldn’t resist.

 

One day he would be strong enough to refuse, and their sadness would break him.)

 

Talion sat down in the middle of the children at the center of the Marketplace and one little girl named Cara (dark skin, dark eyes, he and Torvin found her under her mother’s dead body in a caragor den) climbed in his lap.

 

“Pretty,” she said, reaching up to pat right below his hellish eyes, and Talion had to blink away tears.

 

“No,” he told her gently. “Bad.”

 

“Bad?” Cara said, confused. “No bad! Pretty! Ta’ion pretty!”

 

Talion had had this argument with her every time she sat in his lap, and somehow he always lost. Probably because she stared up at him mournfully every time he told her that he was too evil to be pretty.

 

(Sauron was pretty when he walked up to Eregion and presented Celebrimbor with the same mithril hammer that he used to slaughter the wraith’s family. He was pretty as he slammed that hammer into Celebrimbor’s head until he died.

 

Talion didn’t tell Cara this.)

 

“I’m not pretty, Cara,” he told her once more, as if it would make a difference. “ _ You’re  _ pretty.”

 

“Yeah,” she agreed easily. “Both pretty!”

 

“Fine,” he said. “We’re both pretty. Do you want to hear about how Torvin and I took down the biggest Graug I’ve ever seen?”

 

The children all cheered, now numbering about twenty, but quieted down when Talion pressed a finger against his lips. They all shuffled forward eagerly as he told his story, laughing whenever Torvin would call over corrections from his stall. They managed to convince him to tell two more stories, before insisting on seeing how many of them Talion could carry at once.

 

With the children was the happiest that Talion ever was since his death. He was surrounded by too many children while four clung off of each outstretched arm, four more clutched his legs, three somehow managed to find their way onto his shoulders, two held themselves up by his breastplate, and two more hung by his cloak. The only good thing about his undead strength, Talion believed, was that he could now carry nineteen children all at once.

 

The children giggled as Talion walked forward, each step burdened by the children on his feet. They shrieked as he stomped his feet and spun in a slow circle. The children on Talion’s shoulders gripped his hair, pulling on it, but he didn’t mind.

 

“Alright,” he said, planting his feet. “Off!”

 

They all whined, but got off of him. The kids on his feet rolled away first, then everyone on his arms, back, and chest dropped into a giggling pile. Talion reached up and pulled the two children on either shoulder off and lowered them to the ground before he lifted the one on the back of his shoulders over his head and placed him the in the puppy pile.

 

Talion sat in the center of the children, lying down on the cracked cobblestone. Three different children, including Cara, all crawled on his chest. A glance at the orange sky with a low sun and the children yawning around him showed that it was later than he initially thought. 

 

“Come on, everyone,” a cheerful voice called from behind him, and Talion turned to see the Caretaker behind him. “I believe that it is your bedtime.”

 

Gawain Silversmith, otherwise known as the Caretaker, was a man of unknown origins and unknown species. His skin was a few shades lighter than Baranor’s, but darker than Talion’s and his ears were closer to the elves than to humans. The truly unique parts of him were the copper scales that covered his eyes and jawline, as well as the wings that stretched out from his back. There were a few other differences, such as the metal ridges that arched through the skin around his heart, but the wings were the very first things that anyone noticed.

 

Gawain had appeared a few days before the first large group of orphans had, and had requested to be allowed to set up an orphanage. Talion hadn’t seen any reason why not, other than his species and suspicious origins, but it wasn’t like he had any room to talk. A Nazgul refusing to let someone else work in his city would be hypocrisy.

 

Allowing Gawain to care for the orphans that showed up in Minas Morgul had been the best decision Talion could have made. Gawain clearly had magic, if most of it unknown, but all of it made him perfect for caring for children. It was suspicious, Talion would admit, but the children seemed happy and Gawain was well-liked.

 

The children immediately flocked to their Caretaker, asking that they be allowed to stay with Talion a few more hours,  _ please, Gawain? _ The Caretaker smiled at all of them as he leaned down to pick up a younger child. The child curled against Gawain, rubbing one finger against the metal in the skin on his bare chest.

 

“It is time to go to sleep,” Gawain told all of them. “You may not  _ want  _ to, but it is that horrible time of day again, and the Gravewalker must find his rest as well. If you exhaust him too much, then he would be too tired to play with you again.”

 

Talion watched, impressed, as Gawain managed to convince all of the children to happily follow him back to the orphanage to go to bed. He was a miracle with children, understanding them and using that to teach them in a way that many people could not.

 

Now that the children were gone, Talion looked toward Mordor, towards Dirhael. Unless Talion had been hallucinating, he was alive. If he was alive, then that meant that Ioreth could be alive as well.

 

Sighing, Talion made his way towards his tower. If Dirhael and Ioreth were truly alive, then he needed to know. A part of him shrank away from the idea of checking, knowing that he could not stand it if he searched for them and found nothing but shades of his own making. However, he needed to see them and the shade of Isildur, he had to know if they were truly there.

 

A fire drake lay curled up on the ground in front of Talion’s tower, smoke rising from her nostrils. A blue hand was painted over her right eye, and she snored softly. Talion walked up to her and gently laid a hand over the one painted onto her.

 

She opened that large eye, shaking herself and standing before him. She was one of the largest drakes that Talion had ever ridden and he hadn’t even needed to break her first. He had raised her from the egg himself, naming her “Feanor,” after Celebrimbor’s grandfather.

 

Talion wished that, if he had not already found peace, Celebrimbor would travel to Minas Morgul so that Talion could introduce him to Feanor. He would be so offended that Talion named a female fire drake after his grandfather. 

 

“Hello, Feanor,” Talion murmured, running a hand along her scales. “Take me to my son.”

 

Feanor crouched low, allowing Talion to pull himself onto her neck, before she launched herself into the air, flying out of Minas Morgul. She could fly what would take days to walk in mere hours, which was why Talion had chose her for this journey.

 

As they approached the battlefield where Talion had fought Dirhael, Feanor rose ever higher to avoid being seen. Talion took a deep breath before lowering himself over Feanor’s neck, exhaling, and entering the wraith world.

 

Far below them was a fire in a ruin, surrounded by six figures. Three of the figures glowed blue and the other three glowed gold. One must be Dirhael, but Talion did not know who the other two gold could have been. 

 

Feanor was almost directly over the ruins, so Talion brought himself back into his body and leapt from her back. She knew to stay quiet, but Talion could feel her desire to shriek at his unnecessary risk taking. She was worrisome like that.

 

It was probably worrisome that he could judge a fire drake’s emotions.

 

Talion twisted in midair a few hundred meters above the ground, landing hard on the ground. He ran towards the ruins and climbed high above where the camp was before making his way to a beam directly above them.

 

“Dirhael, it has been almost a day,” Ioreth pleaded with her son, and Talion lost his breath at the sigh of her, “and you still refuse to tell me what you saw to unsettle you so.”

 

“I am sorry, mother,” Dirhael said. “I just am not sure how to tell you what I saw.”

 

“I have probably seen worse,” Ioreth told him. “Even if I haven’t, there is still no reason for you to carry this burden alone.”

 

Dirhael was very silent for a minute. “I- I know it wasn’t him,” he began, “but after I stabbed that thing, it took on Father’s face.”

 

Ioreth recoiled as if she had been struck, furious. “It did  _ what _ ?” she hissed. “I should rip it apart with my bare hands! It destroys his memory.”

 

“And what was he like?” Isildur asked. “Preserve his memory in goodness so that the shade does not destroy it.”

 

“A fine idea, my King,” Dirhael said. “The only way to fight the dark is with light.”

 

“He was a good man,” Ioreth said to the group. “He deserves better than to have his face worn by a wraith.”

 

_ I deserve worse, _ Talion thought as he settled down on the beam,  _ but I am glad that she believes otherwise. She deserves to believe the best of one she loved. _

 

He leaned his head back against the wall at his back, listening to Dirhael and Ioreth tell stories of him. It was nice to be reminded of good time and memories, and he was ecstatic to learn that Isildur was truly Aragorn, the living Heir to Isildur.

 

_ Maybe there is hope for me yet,  _ Talion thought,  _ even if I am not worthy of the Halls of Mandos. _

 

“He sounds like a noble man,” said King Aragorn. “I am sad that I did not get to meet him.”

 

“You would have gotten along well,” Dirhael said, and Talion snorted from above. He was not worthy of a King. “You and he lead in much the same ways. I believe that you would agree on many things.”

 

Talion creeped across the beam until he could see the face of his son. He shouldn’t have come here, he should have stayed in Minas Morgul where his son could live in peace thinking him dead, but he wanted to see his face.

 

Dirhael sat in between Ioreth and King Aragorn and used a branch to poke at their campfire. He had grown up significantly since Talion had last seen him, but he was still Dirhael, and Ioreth’s hair was now streaked with gray and her face was lined. They had aged and grown without him, and Talion felt the grief swell within him.

 

He never should have come here, they were happy without him, happy with only his memory. If they spotted him then that illusion of his goodness would be shattered, and there would only be heartbreak. He climbed up as high as he could in the ruins, swiftly reaching the top. He aimed Azkar at where he knew Feanor to be and flashed himself up onto her back.

 

Feanor did not judge him when she felt his tears fall on her neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! There will be more on the way, and you can see some of what is in store at your-local-birb on tumblr. 
> 
> I can also be found on tumblr at padawan-lightningstarborne.


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